Home is where the litter box is

I wrote this for a contest but then re-read the submission guidelines. Kind of missed the mark - details, details - but watch for the corrected submission when it wins the $5,000! Not wanting to waste a post opportunity, here it is:

Devon and Dorset (named for the southwestern counties of England) began their little lives in a shed in rural Mississippi. Eyes gummed shut and crawling with fleas, they were just hours away from death when we discovered them. And with ears bigger than their heads, they were the ugliest kittens you have ever seen. But into a box and into our lives they went.

After many Ivory soap baths and bottles of milk they began to revive and soon were tumbling and pawing at string and shadows.

A few months later we moved. Crated and mewing they complained as we drove them the 27 miles from their birthplace, but soon they were happily chasing lizards and cicadas at their new home. Our one-year old daughter loved these furry, meowing toys by hugging them real tight or sitting on their heads. Maybe because they were just grateful to be alive, they not only tolerated the tough love but adored her for it. They slept on her bed and purred her to sleep.

Another three years on and we moved back north. Not willing to leave our fur-babies behind, for four days and 1,500 miles, the car became their home. Two southern kitties with English names watched from the window of a subaru as fields turned into hills and hills grew into the mountains of Vermont.

Now five years old, our Ugly Kittens have grown into their ears and are two regal, handsome Cats. They still purr our daughter to sleep and mew her awake. But rather than sleeping in the shade of a Mimosa tree, they have learned to tiptoe through snow drifts and curl up in the glow of the woodstove. They are part of our family and have proven that home is where the litter box is.